


Might As Well Be The One

by lesbistanuris



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Actually maybe canon compliant mostly??, M/M, Takes place in 2003 when they're 27, Who knows where this is gonna go, Yeah it's pretty much canon compliant!!!!!, will update tags as needed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-16
Updated: 2019-10-06
Packaged: 2020-10-19 14:00:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20658395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lesbistanuris/pseuds/lesbistanuris
Summary: Eddie can't help himself. Neither can Richie. But that means something very different for each of them, and at the end of the day, they might just have to learn how to help each other.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I haven't written fic in a very long time, but damn if IT Chapter 2 didn't ruin me with feels and send me home scrambling to get a blank Word document open. I literally have no clue where this is going to go, but I hope you enjoy the journey with me xx
> 
> (PS- sorry in advance I tend to write somewhat short-ish chapters!)

The guy’s sitting on the curb with his head between his knees when Eddie happens upon him, and if it wasn’t for the fact that Eddie recognizes all the signs of _Oh shit, I’m gonna be sick_, knows them like the back of his hand, he probably wouldn’t have given the guy a second thought. Would’ve kept on going, _maybe_ tossed the guy a sympathetic glance over his shoulder as he went, randomly wondered later that night as he showered whether the guy was alright, whether he’d made it home in one piece, and that would’ve been that forever. Probably.

As it is, though, Eddie does recognize all those signs, and okay, he’s also amused by the stupid shirt this mystery man is wearing, the flame print camp shirt like he thinks he’s some enigmatic TV chef. Stupid, yes, but admittedly endearing.

Eddie walks over, stands next to the guy, clears his throat. He takes note of the thick-rimmed glasses pushed up on top of this guy’s head, the messy dark hair that curls at the ends and seems to stick to the nape of his neck. Eddie notices details. He can’t afford not to.

When the throat clearing gets no apparent response, Eddie rolls his eyes, pushing his hands into his jacket pockets and clearing his throat again. Louder. More obvious. Why is he bothering, again?

He’s halfway through his last ditch effort, the loudest throat clearing yet, when the guy lifts one hand, middle finger extended, but otherwise remains with his head between his knees. His voice is slurred and audibly annoyed when he says, “Would you knock it off with the gross throat clearing? Not super stoked on the idea of puking in the street again.”

_Again_. So Eddie _was_ right.

The guy’s reaction makes him, sadly, less endearing. In fact, Eddie practically scowls, and turns away as if to leave. But… god, he does kind of feel bad for the guy. Kind of.

He lets out a sigh before turning back. “Listen, I can’t in good conscience let you sit on the curb in the middle of the night like this when you’re clearly…”

The guy suddenly heaves into the street. Eddie hasn’t flinched this hard in a while.

“... not sober.”

Eddie is rethinking everything. That’s not even out of the normal for him, either- but god, is he really rethinking everything. Like, who _is_ this guy? Why is he drunk? Why is he alone? Why is he sitting on the curb in the middle of the night? Why is he wearing that shirt?

The guy’s sitting up now, though he’s still kind of… swaying. He keeps his glasses on top of his head, leaning back with his elbows propping him up and looking up at Eddie with his brows furrowed and his eyes only kind of open.

“Are you just gonna stand there and like… lecture me? What do you want?” Still slurred. Still audibly annoyed. Eddie is still rethinking everything.

At the end of the day, though, Eddie’s a good guy. At least, he hopes that’s the case. But being as such, he really _can’t_ leave this guy alone, in good conscience.

“I just want to make sure you get home alright, okay?” he finally says, making sure to keep his voice even, measured- he doesn’t need to sound audibly annoyed, too. That’s not going to help anything, and he knows it.

There’s a brief moment where Eddie thinks the guy might hurl again, by the way he suddenly lurches forward, head between his knees again. But seconds tick by with no hurling, and Eddie is admittedly relieved.

“I’ll be fine,” the guy replies, then, but his voice isn’t very convincing. Less annoyed, but in no way convincing.

Eddie rolls his eyes and goes, “Listen. Just let me get you home, okay? I’ll drive you. What’s your name?”

He wonders if he’ll even get a response now. Admittedly, he vaguely wonders if the guy didn’t just suddenly kick the bucket right then and there. The thought makes Eddie’s heart skip a worried beat. But then the guy is sitting up again, looking up at Eddie with a very confused expression and muttering, “Sure, fine, whatever, Jesus. I mean, I’m Richie, not Jesus, I’m not… fuck.” And Eddie can’t help but laugh.


	2. Chapter 2

When Richie wakes up, he notices two things. The first is that he’s sprawled out on his couch fully clothed. The second is that it feels as though someone’s taken an ice pick to his skull. He throws his arms over his face to block out the light that’s streaming through the window, groaning and feeling his stomach roiling in such a way he can’t help but wonder how much he _actually_ drank last night.

And for that matter, how did he even get home? If he was really that drunk, there’s no way he’d have managed to make it home in one piece like this by himself.

His thoughts are foggy, each and every one punctuated by the throbbing in his brain, and try as he might to just… not think, he can’t help but ponder the mystery of how he got home.

The rest of the night is a mystery too, admittedly. He remembers some things, sure- he remembers heading out to the bar, he remembers ordering a double, he remembers sitting there alone and mustering up every single iota of willpower he possibly could to _not_ mull over the diatribe his parents had ambushed him with that morning. Unfortunately, he remembers the diatribe itself, too.

Other than that, everything is just… blank. It’s as if this hangover headache from hell has shoved out any semblance of a memory and is just throbbing in all the places the answers to _What happened_ should be. It’s a wonder he’s even awake right now, he thinks.

As he turns his head towards the Walmart clearance coffee table, Richie notices some things.

First: a bottle of water. He reaches out for it and in moments he’s dropping the empty bottle to the floor and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He could go for, like, ten more, he thinks, but he was only left with one.

Second: a box of crackers. Store brand, run of the mill, but god, they seem heaven-sent right about now. Richie grabs the box, manages to sit up, starts nibbling on the edge of a knock-off Ritz and turns his focus to…

Third: a folded up piece of paper. Richie can see sloppy handwriting in green ink through the thin paper as he picks it up and unfolds it. He holds a cracker between his teeth as he uses both hands to flatten the paper against his thighs. Where are his glasses, he wonders, before those become the fourth thing he notices and he puts them on so he can get to reading.

The handwriting is terrible. Even if Richie didn’t have a splitting headache, trying to decipher the handwriting would be a literal pain. But he’s too intrigued (and, okay, confused) to not try at all, so he squints and pushes through the pain.

_Since you’ll probably wake up and wonder how you got home, I thought I’d leave you this note. My name is Eddie and I didn’t feel like having it on my conscience if I left you sitting on the street and then later saw you turn up dead in the news. I got your address from your license and your keys from your jacket. Which you left in the bar. And then I got you home. So… you’re welcome._

Richie scoffs, rolls his eyes- big mistake, since it sends a shooting pain through his forehead. But really, who the hell is this Eddie guy? Like, who does he think he is? _I could’ve made it home myself_, Richie thinks.

At the very bottom of the paper is a string of numbers. In his hungover haze, it takes Richie way too long to realize that the numbers are a phone number. Presumably, Eddie’s. But why should Richie call him? What would it even accomplish? Is Eddie expecting a “thank you for saving my life last night” call? _I could’ve made it home myself._

Richie crumples up the paper and tosses it in the general vicinity of the kitchen, with its overflowing trash can, sets his glasses back on the coffee table, and passes right back out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I'd really love any and all feedback on this! I haven't written much in a couple years but I've just been feeling super inspired so bam, Reddie fic. I'm excited to keep updating- I'm planning on Sundays and Thursdays. Thanks for reading, everyone!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again I'm so sorry my chapters are so short! I'd love any and all feedback you may have for me, though! Hope you're still enjoying!

As Eddie walks through the front door, locks it behind himself, throws his book bag onto the nearest chair, and gives his mother (asleep in her recliner with the TV on, as usual) a kiss on the forehead as he passes by, his mind is just… stuck on Richie.

It’s three in the morning, and ordinarily, Eddie would be dead asleep by now. He doesn’t get home at three in the morning, like, ever. _Has it ever even happened at all?_ he wonders. He’s feeling his way down the pitch black hallway using the wall as his guide, and when he reaches his room, he opens the door and collapses gratefully onto his bed.

He almost thought he might fall right asleep. Almost, but not quite. First, there’s the fact that he needs a shower. Eddie Kaspbrak refuses to go to sleep without showering, as a general rule. And second, there’s the fact that his mind is, after all, just… stuck on Richie.

Eddie sits up in bed, leans over, turns on the bedside lamp. In the process, he knocks one of his pill bottles onto the floor. As he leans down and searches blindly with one hand for it, he can hear the tiny tablets rattling around in the orange plastic, and finally his hand closes around the bottle and he gets to sit back up again. He shifts the bottle from hand to hand, feeling his heart beating just the slightest bit faster. _Why the hell can’t he stop thinking about Richie?_ He pops open the bottle and lets a tablet dissolve under his tongue.

As he’s standing in the shower ten or fifteen minutes later, his heart rate has slowed to a more manageable pace, but his thoughts are still stuck on _goddamn Richie._ He’d had to practically peel him up off the pavement, drape the guy’s arm around his shoulders and half-drag, half-carry him to where he’d parked and get him into the passenger seat. A quick pat-down of his pockets had turned up no keys, so (after swearing very colorfully under his breath) Eddie had locked Richie in the car and speed-walked over to the bar, retrieving Richie’s jacket with his keys in the pocket. Again he’d gone for Richie’s pants pockets, this time to extricate his wallet so he could find the address on his driver’s license and hope it was still current. Richie, for his part, was not doing a very good job of staying conscious. At least he _was_ doing a good job of not vomiting in the car.

The drive didn’t take very long, and it was spent with Eddie clutching the steering wheel in a white-knuckled grip and Richie alternating between silence with his head hanging chin to chest, and incoherent mumbling with his head leaned against the window. Eddie had had to maneuver him out of the car and up to his door- thankfully, mercifully a walk-up- and somehow unlocked the door while making sure Richie didn’t fall. He’d gotten him to the couch, looked around at the mild squalor, and sighed heavily as he started to head out.

But Richie had begun mumbling again, then, and Eddie couldn’t help but pause and listen. Something about being undeserving. Something about parents. Something about being sick, at which point Eddie grabbed the nearby waste bucket and set it next to the couch.

Eddie is washing his hair, now, and wondering what possessed him to pocket Richie’s keys so he could let himself back in after driving to the corner store and picking up water and crackers. He wonders what possessed him to sit on the floor and fuck around on his phone until he felt mostly confident that Richie wouldn’t turn onto his back and end up aspirating on vomit in his sleep. He rinses his hair and then he stands there, wondering, until the hot water runs out and he realizes it must be, what, four in the morning now, so he gets out of the shower and dries off and goes back to his bed and lets another tablet dissolve under his tongue and he falls asleep still wondering.


	4. Chapter 4

The first call Richie makes is to his ex. Fuck, even just thinking of him that way- _my ex_\- unleashes a slew of emotions in Richie that make him wish he was blackout drunk all over again. How has it been less than 48 hours since he went from being in a relationship to being… god. Painfully fucking single.

The second through sixth calls Richie makes are also to his ex. Every single one of them rings for thirty seconds before the voicemail picks up. The seventh call skips the ringing, and Richie’s phone hits the wall.

He’s sitting there, on the couch, with his head in his hands for who knows how long before he finally gets up to retrieve his phone. His hands are shaking, and there’s a small dent in the wall now, a small dent that he’ll promptly ignore for the rest of forever because how could he honestly give a shit?

While he’s already up, he figures maybe he should eat something, so he heads over to the fridge and opens it up to review its sparse contents before shutting the door again and going back for that box of crackers on the coffee table. On the way, he steps on a crumpled piece of paper with sloppy handwriting in green ink.

Back on the couch, Richie is munching sullenly on the crackers and mulling over the note. Eddie… the name sounds familiar, somehow, but the ability to place it seems to be just out of Richie’s grasp. He tries to remember something, anything, about Eddie from last night, but all he ends up with is a vague mental image of dark hair and dark eyes and the energy of a caffeinated hummingbird contained within a man’s body.

The note gets folded up and carried to Richie’s bedroom, where he sets it on the (Walmart clearance) nightstand and anchors it down with a dirty “I Love Maine” mug that once contained maybe coffee, maybe whiskey. Maybe both.

He flops down in his bed, face first, and buries his head under a pillow. It’s hard to breathe, but whatever, that’s fine. He doesn’t care. He lays there in the self-inflicted darkness and just… thinks.

He’s remembering the dream he had last night, as he lets his thoughts wander. It comes back to him bit by bit as the minutes tick by, though the bits are still fragmented pieces that don’t fit cohesively together. Something about a broken arm, some bikes, a hammock. Richie was never any good at puzzles.

Before he knows it, he’s sitting back up and examining the note once again. He idly traces his fingers over the blocky all-capitals handwriting, the scribble in the corner where Eddie must have been getting the pen to work, the way he misspelled ‘conscience’ not once but twice and scratched it out to try again. Richie lets out a huff of a breath and goes as if to crumple the paper up, but then thinks better of it, and back beneath the Maine mug it goes.

Leaning over to grab his phone off the nightstand, Richie holds it in one hand, slaps it against the opposite palm as he chews on the inside of his cheek and debates with himself. But the debate doesn’t take long, because in moments he’s hitting the redial button and hoping maybe _this_ time his ex will pick up.

“Goddammit, hello?” comes his ex’s voice after the sixth ring.

Richie feels like a hand seizes his throat.

“I… I…” he stammers, holding the phone away from his face for as long as it takes to clear his throat.

“You what, Rich? What do you want from me? It’s over, okay? I’m not changing my mind!” He doesn’t even sound angry, really, and Richie thinks maybe that hurts more, somehow. Instead, he just sounds… tired. He sounds so, so tired.

“I didn’t want…” Richie hates how his voice trails off, and he clears his throat once more before trying again. “I just… I told them, I promise I did…”

His ex’s sigh is exasperated, and Richie can just picture him, pushing a hand through his messy blond hair, jaw locked tight. “You told them _after_, Rich, and that wasn’t the point. Last ditch doesn’t count.”

A few moments go by in silence- too many moments, if you ask Richie, but he’s just amazed his ex hasn’t hung up yet.

He speaks finally, and god, he hates how… how small his voice sounds when he does. “I told them and they said they want nothing more to do with me. I told them and I… I _told_ them.”

There’s another silence before his ex sighs, too-loud static right into Richie’s ear, and he says, “I’m sorry, Rich, I really am. But don’t call this number again.”

The phone beeps to signal the call ending, and Richie decides it’s time for a trip to the liquor store.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slow burn? What slow burn? Never heard of her! Lol I promise this won't always be so bleak and that there will be Reddie interaction soon!!!!!


	5. Chapter 5

Twenty-seven years old, and Eddie’s mom still thinks she needs to set him up for dates.

“Mom, I already _told_ you to stop this shit, did I not?” He’s storming through the house, all worked up in a whirlwind, since the first words Sonia said when he got home were _Eddie-bear, don’t get too comfy! You’re going out with Marla Baker’s daughter at seven!_

“Language, Eddie!” Sonia chides from her recliner, frowning and craning her neck to watch him as best she can without moving otherwise. He’s just stomped from the kitchen to his room and then back, and she knows she’ll get dizzy if she tries to keep up.

“Mom!” Eddie groans and throws his hands in the air in frustration, and ends up banging the cabinet door open to grab a glass and fill it from the tap, downing it all in one angry go.

Sonia sighs and turns her focus back to the television, though there’s nothing actually playing. “Eddie-bear,” she starts, her voice much calmer, more sickly sweet. “You know how you get when you’re all worked up like this. It’s not good for your heart. Don’t you think you should go see your doctor again? Maybe get that prescription refilled?”

Eddie’s storming back to his room now and swearing under his breath, muttering to himself, “Yeah, you’re one to talk.” It doesn’t take long before he’s letting one of his tried and true tablets dissolve under his tongue.

He’ll go on the date. He knows he will. Sonia knows it, too. And really, in a way he feels bad that he’s being so difficult about it. She has his best interest in mind. She’s _always_ had his best interest in mind. And okay, so maybe she goes about it a little… unconventionally. But still. She’s his mother. He’s her Eddie-bear. He’ll go on the date.

Sonia knows she’s won, so Eddie hears nothing else from her after he shuts his door and sits on the edge of his bed and just… stares at the wall.

He can’t remember whether he just took a tablet from the 1 or the 2 milligram bottle, so he reaches blindly for whichever is closest to him now and pops one more tablet just in case. And then he’s staring at the wall some more, jaw set and brows furrowed until the pills kick in and he feels his entire being going slack.

That’s when he knows he can get ready for this… this date. This date with Marla Baker’s daughter.

_Marla Baker’s daughter is probably 32,_ Eddie thinks. _She’s probably 32 and works at an elementary school. She’s always complaining about the kids getting her sick. She won’t eat dairy and she gets highlights every six weeks and she’s probably very, very nice,_ he thinks as he paws mindlessly through his closet and pulls out an outfit, and a minute or two later he’s dressed in a pale blue polo shirt and dark jeans instead of the T-shirt and baggy shorts he’d been wearing as he returned from a long walk outside.

He’s just going through the motions at this point, heading to the bathroom and fixing his hair, brushing his teeth, spritzing on some cologne. He ends up staring into the mirror for a bit, now, too. He’s been doing a lot of staring lately.

By the time Eddie comes out of his room to leave for this date, Sonia’s fallen asleep, and he wishes he could get out of this. But he’s tried to before, and, well. Twenty-seven years old or not, Eddie doesn’t _really_ want to upset his mother.

He knows the drill by now, and walks over to the notepad by the fridge. There’s a phone number scrawled there, and within minutes he’s called and spoken with Marla Baker’s daughter to confirm where they’re supposed to meet. Sondra. Her name is Sondra, because of course it is. Her name is Sondra and she wants to meet at a bar a few blocks away.

The name of the bar sounds familiar, but Eddie can’t quite place why. As he pulls up, though, and finds a parking spot, he realizes exactly why.


	6. Chapter 6

This is not Richie’s first liquor store run this week, but it is his first liquor store run this week wherein his card gets declined.

“Hold on, just… hold on, dude,” Richie mutters to the cashier, an old Polish guy who more or less exclusively interacts with Richie in the form of grunts and nods. The guy grunts and nods at Richie now, while he walks a pace or two away to call the number on the back of his card.

One very demoralizing balance check phone call later, Richie avoids the old Polish guy’s stare and gives him a weak little two-finger salute as he leaves the store and tries to regroup.

He stands there outside the store with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his old leather jacket. The jacket is soft and warm and used to be his dad’s, which sends a pang through Richie’s heart every time he thinks about it. It’s late October so the jacket’s much welcomed, too, and a thought flashes in his brain that _That Eddie guy said he had to get my jacket from the bar, didn’t he? Huh._

Blinking the thought away, Richie decides he’ll head to the usual bar, thinking now about how it pays to know the owner- technically he has a tab, but he knows he’ll never _actually_ spend a dime.

These days, he walks just about everywhere. Obviously weather-permitting, for the most part, but he’s even been known to head a few blocks in the rain, arriving to his destination with his clothing plastered to his body and his hair to his forehead and neck. And he won’t go miles at a time, or anything. He’s not a masochist, not really. But walking is just… calming.

So that’s how within the hour, Richie is walking into the usual bar and going to sit in his usual spot. He orders his usual drink, and is expecting a usual night. Until someone unusual walks in, too.

It’s weird, he thinks, how there are people in this world who can simultaneously be complete strangers, yet feel like someone you’ve known your entire life. Richie’s had this thought before, but right now it seems especially… poignant, as he watches this guy walk in, watches him make his way to the end of the bar with a pretty blonde on his arm and a _What the hell am I doing here_ look on his face.

Richie knows that look well. It’s the look he sees on kids’ faces when they walk into the gay clubs for the first time. It’s the look his ex would get when he’d come over to Richie’s place. It’s the look Richie would see in the mirror anytime he walked up to his office building or used the bathroom at his ex’s place. And this guy, this guy with his dark eyes and his dark hair and the dimples that are apparent even though he isn’t smiling… right now he looks like he _invented_ that look.

Richie’s only on his second drink, but sometimes he forgets to eat, so he’s feeling just woozy enough that he can’t quite put his finger on why this guy looks so familiar. He might be staring, he knows it, but he knows full well he won’t be satisfied until he places the face. So he watches as the guy sits and talks with the pretty blonde, smiling and nodding at all the right moments, looking up at her as she speaks but always looking away as he speaks back and his hands remaining firmly wrapped around his glass. And that _look_ just lingers right under the surface all the while.

When Richie’s on his third (maybe fourth?) drink, the pretty blonde gets up, presumably to go to the bathroom, and _I’ll be damned_, Richie thinks, if the guy doesn’t breathe a _visible_ sigh of relief, gesturing to the bartender to refill his glass and then pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes before downing half the new drink in one go. Interesting.

The pretty blonde’s taking a while, or maybe Richie’s sense of time right now is just skewed, but either way, he finds himself suddenly walking over to the other end of the bar where this guy is sitting and looking like the world may be about to come to an end.


	7. Chapter 7

Knowing he’d be expected to have drinks with Sondra, Eddie’s stayed away from those little white tablets for the night. That’d be a mistake and a half, to mix the two, and he knows it from experience. Just one experience, but that’d been enough.

Drinks just don’t cut it, though, not when he’s on these dates. God, he doesn’t know if _anything_ would cut it, if anything would make this at all bearable. He’s been sitting at the bar talking to Sondra for… who knows how long, really, but it feels like a lifetime in the most painful way. When she excuses herself to the bathroom, he breathes an actual sigh of relief, signals to the bartender for a refill, and then laughs bitterly to himself, head in his hands. Sondra Baker is 31, and she works at a middle school, and she is very, very nice.

When someone clears their throat in a very pointed manner, Eddie almost ignores it. He just… doesn’t want to be bothered, he thinks. But then, he doesn’t want to be rude, so he looks up, and immediately feels his heart lurch into his throat. _Richie._

Of course, when he’d met Sondra here, he’d realized that this was the bar he’d more or less rescued Richie from. Driven him home from, at the very least. But he hadn’t expected to see Richie here tonight. He isn’t quite sure why.

He wonders if Richie recognizes him. He wonders if Richie realizes who he is. He wonders if Richie is going to thank him, or worse. He wonders where the hell Sondra went, and he wonders (hopes?) that she just unceremoniously left.

“Have I seen you here before?” Richie asks.

Eddie realizes he’s still gaping, more or less, and he raises his brows, shakes his head a little and clears his throat before answering. Okay, so, Richie doesn’t realize who he is. Scratch that off the list of possibilities.

“I mean… kind of?” He laughs, surprising himself, and then shrugs a shoulder. “I drove you home the other night.”

Somehow Richie’s face both lights up and crumples, all at once. Eddie doesn’t know what to make of that.

“Yeah, okay, yeah,” Richie says. “I thought… yeah, I thought you seemed familiar, but I had no clue why. It was… Eddie, right? That’s what the note said? Which, dude, thank you, by the way. Seriously.”

Eddie can’t help it. He smiles softly, tries to hide it behind his glass by taking a long drink, but his dimples give him away clear as day.

“I mean, I didn’t want some guy turning up dead in a ditch somewhere and having that on my conscience forever, so it was more selfish than anything, really,” Eddie says, and he notices that his words feel light on his tongue in a way they haven’t yet tonight, not when he was talking with Sondra.

The way Richie rolls his eyes… Eddie tries hiding another smile. What is _happening_ here?

“Oh, okay, sure. My bad for thinking you were just a good Samaritan,” Richie says, his face deadly serious, and Eddie thinks maybe his heart stops. _Oh no._

“I was kidding,” Eddie immediately backtracks, setting his glass down and raising his brows and shaking his head. “I was kidding, seriously. I’m not an asshole, I promise I just-”

Richie’s face breaks into a shit-eating grin and he starts laughing, and Eddie feels like he’s heard this laugh somewhere before. It simultaneously relieves him and pisses him the hell off.

“What the fuck?” he says, rolling his eyes now too, and finishing off the rest of his drink before slamming the glass down on the bar in annoyance. The bartender flashes him a _Want another?_ look and Eddie gives a thumbs up in response.

As Richie slowly stops laughing, shaking his head and taking his glasses off to wipe his eyes, he looks Eddie in the eye and suddenly things are serious.

“Thank you, though, seriously. Like…” he shrugs, and puts his glasses back on. “I don’t know. Thank you. I feel like I owe you one now.”

Inexplicably, Eddie feels his cheeks heat up, and he takes a long swig of his new drink before he responds. “You don’t owe me anything, Richie.” How does the name feel so _easy_, he wonders?

“I really do, though,” Richie argues, and Eddie can tell, immediately, that he’s dead set on this.

Eddie swallows down the sudden lump in his throat with another gulp of alcohol. “Except you don’t,” he mutters, but it’s half-hearted, clear as day.

“Just… let’s get dinner sometime. I mean, let me get you dinner sometime, or something. Like, if nothing else,” Richie says, and he wonders where that came from all of a sudden.

It surprises Eddie too, admittedly. But what surprises him more is the fact that before he can think twice, he’s saying, “Sure, yeah. Let’s get dinner sometime.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter means I've gotten to the point in posting where I don't have extra chapters already written! So if at any point chapters are posted a day or two late, that's why. But I'm gonna try to stay consistent! I hope y'all are still enjoying!


End file.
